Lavendar Trumpet

His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away
from splashing to the lake, measuring poet's time,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

was beauty terrible, a history where sorrow lay
ruined in hearts, bled in the land, bred in his rhyme,
his swans have gone from Coole, flown years away.

Commanding flap, their trumpet fading to the gray,
the purpled mist of dusk or dawn, past tower, chime,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

wears scars like tarnished jewels that fueled his day
in anguish slouching toward a vision of the crime:
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,

loss blown like love and seedlings, nothing but to pray
for daughter and schoolchildren, years that climb,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

can't heal, but even tattered, aged, he raged in sway
of nation spun into the bone of hills and wild thyme.
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say.